


M17UN4 H45 4 R0UGH D4Y

by formerlyket (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: (or implied at least), Ambigiously Neurodivergent Mituna, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Humanstuck, Hurt/Comfort, Jenga, Kurloz being a good friend, Or at least happy-ish, Sensory Overload, Swearing, cronus is a jerk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-09 20:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20516012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/formerlyket
Summary: Mituna's day goes from tolerable to shitty with the help of Jenga blocks, his horrible room-mates, and bacon.Also known as Mituna experience sensory overload because most of his friends are inconsiderate, jerks, or inconsiderate jerks.





	M17UN4 H45 4 R0UGH D4Y

**Author's Note:**

> Um so I didn't do any research at all for this it was just me going off of my own experiences. Actually, I wrote the thing, stared at it for a bit wondering if it was unrealistic, then went into the living room and had like 50% of the things that happen to Mituna in this happen to me so...

Your name is Mituna. You're sitting on a couch in the house you share with a few friends, stacking Jenga blocks to make the stereotypical tower shape the blocks are meant to stack into but every time you get near the top your shaking hands knock the structure over. It's really pissing you off that you keep having to pick those fucking blocks up from the floor. You hope you don't have to do it again. The destroying part is supposed to come when after you've built it properly. It's hard for you to accept you haven't even managed to do that, even though it's not your fault your hands are so shaky or those shitty fucking blocks are so slippery.

The tower is almost built now. You've only got four more blocks to place and your hands are shaking even more now. The pressure of almost having it built sis tarting to get to you. You swear the moment this thing is erected, you're gonna kick it to shit. Holding your breath, you slide the fourth-to-last block into place. The structure wobbles for a second and you yank your hand away before your trembling can sway its fate. It stays put. You exhale, careful not to breathe too hard on your creation. Only the top row to go.

You're not just stacking Jenga blocks for no reason. Even _you_ know it would be pathetic to play Jenga alone, though all your failures at constructing the tower might be more pathetic. However, the reason you've decided to partake in this frustrating exercise is to try to train your hands to stop shaking. Although you've tried to accept that it's just a thing they do, it makes typing, writing, or playing video games with your friends infuriating and messy. Your hope is that if you can make a stupid block tower enough times you'll be able to lessen the tremors.

The third-to-last block is down, and you grin, turning away from the coffee table to kick your legs in excitement. You don't want to risk destroying it with a misplaced foot. Porrim, one of your friends, and notably one of your friends who does not live here so must be visiting, looks up from the dishes she's cleaning in the kitchen across the room. You guess she's wondering what the fuss is about. You don't really care. Only two more blocks before you can curb-stomp this Jenga bitch. You pick the penultimate block up in your hand.

Ugh, now that you've made eye contact with Porrim, it's hard to ignore the noises of the plates clinking together and the water in the sink splashing. You pull your hand back just before you place the block, clutching it in your fist as you take a moment to breathe and ignore the sounds from the kitchen. Okay... You've got this. Your fist unfurls and you slide the block back between your thumb and forefinger, ready to slide it beside it's brother. Your other hand reaches for the last block, itching in anticipation.

Someone flops down beside you on the couch, startling you as their weight shifts the cushions. You jump, feet lifting off the ground in instinct as your body reacts to the new presence and your knees slam into the underside of the coffee table. You realize what you've done before you even feel the pain in your knees and try to throw out your hands to stop the tower from falling apart again but you end up grasping at loose blocks as they scatter around the table and the floor. You whip your head around to see who the fuck caused this horrible loss and find yourself face to face with none other than Cronus Ampora.

“OH FFFUCK OFF!” You yell, stomping your feet on the ground, rage bubbling up inside of you. You were so close. You almost had the tower built! And now this festering wound of a man had to come in and ruin your glory! You chuck what was meant to be the last block in your tower at his head, but even at point blank rage you still miss. _Shit_. Cronus gives you a crooked smile, that pointless unlit cigarette hanging from his teeth. Does he think that makes him look cool? It makes him look like a massive cunt who doesn't even know how to smoke. He leans back on the couch, putting his feet up on the coffee table, turning the TV on with the remote you hadn't noticed was in his hand. He begins flicking through channels as he speaks.

“vwoah, careful there chief, you could end up hurting someone vwith that thing.” he says, picking the block up from where it had landed beside him and chucking it back at you. His aim is significantly better than yours and you scramble to try to catch it before it hits you in the face. It bounces off the hand you're using to shield yourself and falls on the floor with the rest. You stare at the sad pile of wooden blocks for a second before turning back to Cronus.

“YEAH DIPSHIT THAT'S THE FCKUNG IDDAEA” You reply, or at least try to. In your agitation, your tongue is fucking up all the words again. Cronus puts his arms around the back of the couch. One sort of touches your back and you shiver, sitting forwards to get his hand away from you. He's staring at the TV screen, pressing a button on the remote every few seconds as he tries to find something to watch. You want to yank the remote out of his hands and snap it in half. You don't though, mainly because you think it would be pretty hard to snap half an inch of solid plastic with your hands. Cronus starts talking again and your hands clench into fists.

“haha, vwowv, captor. i just got home from an eight hour shift at vwork and instead of getting to relax in front of the tvw i havwe to deal vwith your babbling. dont you think thats kind of unfair?” he says, finally settling on a channel he wants to watch. You glance at the screen, wondering what sort of thing a douchebag like him could enjoy watching. It takes you a second to place the faces of the actors but you realizes he's watching Supernatural. Didn't that die like 5 years ago? Holy shit, this guy sucks. You whip back around to face him. He's still smiling but his eyes are so cold that they make you shiver.

“FUCK YOU YOU KNCOCKED DONW MY TOWER YOU FUCKNG SACK OF SHIT” You growl, scooching away from him as much as the limited space on the couch will allow. The words are coming a bit easier now but you still curse yourself for messing up on the ones you do. Your ears are ringing and your whole body is shaking again but you're pretty sure it's with anger this time.

Cronus doesn't reply right away. He tears his eyes off the TV for a moment, looking down at the mess of Jengas strewn about the table and floor, then raises an eyebrow and looks back up at you. You don't like the look of the smirk on his face.

“uh, im pretty sure youre the one vwho knocked it ovwer there, boss. you hit it, you reta... remember doing that, yeah?”

You hate the look on his face when he says that. In fact, you hate it so much that you're about to yell at him some more but you pause for a second. He's right. You did knock it over. How could it have been anyone else when you knocked it over so many times? And your knees really hurt from when you hit them on the table. That's right. You knocked your Jenga over again. Your eyes dart over to him and he's glaring at you. Ice fills your veins. Tears threaten to form in your eyes. You want to leave but your leet feel like they're nailed to the ground.You hang your head and nod.

“IM SORRY” is all you can manage to say.

Cronus opens his mouth to speak again and you flinch. There's too much noise. The TV is loud, Cronus is loud, Porrim washing the dishes is loud and you're pretty sure she's staring at you. It's so much. It's too much. You don't want to hear Cronus speak. You want to cover your ears. You want to...

Before he can say anything, you hear footsteps, followed by another voice entering the room. You don't really want to look up but the flash of a characteristic red sweater catches your eye. You lean forward on yourself, wishing you could curl up in a ball. Then the talking really starts. You try not to listen, even though the noise feels like sandpaper on your ears.

“Not to interrupt your relaxation after such a long day, Cronus...”

Shit shit shit shit, there Kankri goes. It hurts to listen. You wish you couldn't hear any of it. You can only process snippets.

“...or at least take off your boots before putting your feet on...”

You clench your jaw, hoping that it will make your ears do the rumble-y thing and block out some of the noise.

“...I understand you feel that way, but if you can't adhere to those expectations...”

You lean your head against your shoulder, pressing your ear into it to try to dampen some of the noise. It's barely even words anymore, it's just noise and pressure and it hurts. You hear a fridge door open and the stove click on. Kankri is still talking. The TV is still on. Cronus complains every now and again. The loud fan above the stove whirs into life. You can't even be bothered to think about what it's actually called. You know it's loud and painful. Porrim turns on the tap to rinse a dish. You want to scream. Your hands wring at each other desperately. Someone's cooking something. The sizzling in the pan makes you wriggle around in your seat in a helpless attempt to try to distract yourself from the pain it's causing your aching head. You feel pressure beside you. Cronus had leaned back again, seemingly finished discussing with Kankri, who is now having a discussion with Porrim, if you had to guess. The words are meaningless, but you can see him gesturing in her direction while he brandishes a cooking utensil that you don't remember the name of. The sizzling gets louder and you can smell meat starting to cook.

The smell... It's the final fucking straw. It's not even a bad smell, it's just bacon, it's not even burning or anything but it's all around you. It's pressing against you. It's coating the inside of your lungs, making it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to exist. A quiet whine builds in your throat but you choke it back. You can bear this. You know you can. It's just bacon. It's just...

“THATS SMESLLZ LIKE STHIT.”

The words escape your mouth before you even realize you were thinking them, the volume of your own voice making you wince. And it's not like you were really thinking those words. Not exactly. Still, all three pairs of eyes in the room turn to you. They all look annoyed at your outburst. None of them can see that you're this fucking close to crying.

Two people speak at once. You can hear Kankri say your name and start off on whatever rant he thinks is best, but it's the soft yet annoyed tone of Cronus that reaches your ears first.

“hey nowv-”

You don't hear anything else he has to say. His hand touches your shoulder, maybe to calm you down, maybe to be creepy and oppressive, it doesn't matter. It feels like his fingers are pins. Your body shudders as you wrench yourself away with enough force to land yourself on the ground beside the coffee table. You try to get up, and in your scramble, you thrust your head into the corner of the coffee table heard enough for a dull thud to echo through the room.

A scream tears from your throat. There are no words behind it. You couldn't find words even if you wanted to. The pain courses through your head, snaking down your neck and into your shoulders, stinging and throbbing and there are tears down your face. You hear voices, but you don't _hear_ them as you force your legs to support you as you run out of the room, stumbling to your own bedroom, holding onto the wall for support as your socks slide on the hardwood of the halls.

The door slams shut behind you as you launch yourself into your bed, hissing as the soft plush of your blankets rubs against your arms. Even that's too much right now. You grab a bed sheet, the vanilla texture of it forgiving enough, and drape it over your head in an attempt to block out the light and noise and texture. Your hand shoots out from it, groping around for your pillow, which you place over one ear, pressing it tightly against your head while smooshing your other ear into the mattress. You sob silently, shaking from head to toe, trying to will the voices in the other room silent. The pillow only muffles them.

You don't know how long you're there. Time isn't real to you. Maybe it never was. You're still crying when the door clicks open and you tuck your knees to your chest in a subconscious attempt to protect yourself from whatever assault of stimuli the world has planned for you now. However, instead of the awkward, forced apology you'd get from Cronus or the verbal essay Kankri would launch into, your visitor is quiet, walking through your messy room with near silent footsteps. They lift the sheet over your head slightly (at which you think a silent thanks; you hadn't realized how hard it was getting to breathe) to reveal a painted face and a mess of curly black hair.

Kurloz sits beside you as you sink into his arms. He's as bony as ever, but holds you in a firm, comforting grasp and holds up a pair of ear defenders, though he waits for your affirmative nod before fitting them over your head. You don't feel like you can talk, but you try to force out a thanks as the noise around you is muffled and you feel the familiar comfort of pressure against the sides of your head instead of the barrage of sound. Kurloz doesn't let you speak, however. He seems to sense that it's not really something you're capable of at the moment and presses a thin finger to your lips, a faint smile playing at his own.

His other hand reaches behind your head and you feel the ache where you hit it fade slightly as a cool touch meets your bruise. You realize he's holding an ice pack against it. It helps. It's nice. You force yourself into a slightly more comfortable sitting position, pressing your face against his chest as he holds you. You feel safe.


End file.
